


Three's Company

by secondsodomites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a sucker for babies, Crowley finds a baby, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn, they are in love but don't know it, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondsodomites/pseuds/secondsodomites
Summary: Crowley finds a baby and is emotionally attached. Aziraphale is emotionally attached to Crowley. Baby-raising shenanigans ensue and so does some good old fashioned lovin' in a slow burn kind of way.





	Three's Company

**Author's Note:**

> These idiots own my ass and I just want them to raise a baby and fall in love along the way. I'm so nervous oh my god I didn't even proofread or anything wahoo

Crowley is glaring at a baby.

He wishes it could be said this was the first time in his life on Earth that he has done so, but with the whole Antichrist thing, it'd be a fairly pointless lie. 

The baby is glaring back at him, unlike the Antichrist, who had wailed until he shoved the basket into the hands of Sister Talkative, or whatever. It's in a basket, in an alleyway in central London, in cool weather, with a light blue blanket barely wrapped around it. 

Crowley had only spotted it moments ago.

It has deep brown eyes and fair skin and, for some reason, deep red curls that no child should have at such an infantile stage. 

Crowley keeps glaring until the baby reaches up with a fat fist, snatches his sunglasses, and coos happily. 

A true laugh bubbles out of Crowley's mouth and he watches the infant throw the damned things to the ground.

Oh, he'll absolutely have to show Aziraphale. 

•••

Crowley does precisely that, waltzing through the doors of a SoHo bookshop with a shit-eating grin on his face and a baby in his arms.

"Aziraphale! You better sober up, you absolute lush. I have a gift for you!" he singsongs, and the baby babbles wordlessly, copying him. "Hush, you, you'll ruin the surp-"

"Hello, Crowley. Didn't expect you to be 'round ti-" Aziraphale interrupts Crowley, then interrupts himself, and it's suddenly a dreadfully quiet situation.

That is, until the child in Crowley's arms reaches out to Aziraphale, cooing softly.

"That is a human chid." Aziraphale says, voice breathy with shock.

"Mm. It'd be quite a thing if it were an unhuman child, I should think." Crowley responds midly. 

"Yes, rather. Hm. Why, exactly. Why is there a human child here?" asks the angel, scooping up the kid and holding it at arms length to inspect it. "A female Antichrist?" 

Crowley nearly howls with laughter. "No, you flaming idiot. I was walking around central London and heard it-her-babbling on about some nonsense. She was alone by a bin, in a basket. She was left there." And suddenly he's not laughing anymore, overwhelmed by rage at the fact anyone left such a helpless gem like that.

Then he gags a bit at his saccharine thoughts and simply watches Aziraphale cuddle the child closer.

"Oh, dear. That's absolutely dreadul, little darling. You needn't fret, we'll find your parents, and everything will be okay again." Aziraphale says seriously to the little girl, and she stares back up with big brown eyes as if she knows just what he means. 

Crowley feels himself clear his throat and begin spewing bullshit without truly processing what he is saying. 

"Angel, her parents left her to die. You shouldn't want to return her to those absolute fucking mongrels." he snaps, a wave of protectiveness rolling over him as the girl plays with Aziraphale's bowtie. 

"I suppose you're right. Perhaps an orphanage, then? We could adjust a few things and make it certain we find a good home-oh, love, do stop tightening the bow, I'll choke to death," comes the distracted, humored reply as he gently removes her little fingers from his bowtie.

Crowley knows that logically this is the correct way to go about it. He knows that.

However, Crowley is a petulant brat of a demon and he thinks maybe the baby is too, in some ways, and who better to handle that than he and Aziraphale? 

"Let's keep her." he says with a note of finality. 

The baby begins babbling and he grins at her. "That's right, what do you say, kid? I make a great nanny. Absolutely lovely." he promises her, and Aziraphale is staring at him like he's the biggest fucking idiot any of the univereses have ever delivered. 

"Crowley, you great fool, you'd-we'd be her fathers. She'd-we'd have to explain the entire angel and demon business to her, and send her to school and keep her vaccinated-and I don't care that Hell has humans convinced they aren't real, they are-and take care of her messes, and Crowley, she'd be you-our-a shared daughter between the two of us because Lord knows you rarely take care of yourself. Much less a child six or seven months of age." 

At his rambling, the baby has gotten bored and writhes out of his arms and begs for Crowley with grabby hands. Crowley takes her, takes another look into the chubby face of the child, then Aziraphale and says matter-of-factly, "Let's do it, angel. We can handle it."

And that's how Eleanor came into their world, because Aziraphale is a sucker for babies and Crowley, and Crowley is a sucker for babies and Aziraphale (and The Beatles).

••••

There was paperwork involved. There is always paperwork involved in everything, and of course, adopting an unknown, abandoned child is quite the sticky situation.

Crowley handles it.

He has to, mainly because Aziraphale is too busy miracling up a baby nursery, and buying stupid outfits, and bottles and foods and diapers and hogging up all of Eleanor's brain capacity with stupid books when she can't sleep.

But now that everything is handled, thanks to his own demonic influences, Eleanor has parents by the names of Anthony J. Crowley and A.Z. Fell, and Azirphale's human oriented surname.

(They decided against the hyphenated name because Crowley-Fell is a sick twisted joke both of them laughed at hard enough to wake her in the middle of the night. Also, they were not even together, in their own stupid eyes, so technically, it made little sense.)

The girl is sitting up diligently in her white wood crib, looking at Crowley with a grin.

"Hello, little love," he coos, holding out a finger and snickering when she snatches on it. "Awake now? Good. Let's go see what your Papa is doing, shall we?" She looks af him as if to say, 'probably reading some shite book,' and Crowley nods in solemn agreement before lifting her up and sitting her on the changing pad.

He despises a dirty nappy, but he also despises the thought of Eleanor suffering in one for too long, so changing it is a quick process. Her clothes, however, are a different story.

Aziraphale likes frills. So many ridiculous, unnecessary frills, on her dresses and her socks. 

Crowley likes simple things, in terms of infant clothing.

He miracles up an infant sized Queen shirt, pops it over red curls, and lets her be free to do as she pleases. The poor girl despises leggings or pants, and they've nowhere to be anyways. 

Hoisting Eleanor on his shoulders, he waltzes into the shop, and spots Aziraphale hunched over some stupid old scripture or another. "Papa," Crowley calls. "Your spoiled brat has awoken."

He plops the giggling girl onto the desk beside the scripture and grins wide as she takes a pen that's been messily tossed aside and gnaws. 

Aziraphale looks alarmed. "No, Eleanor. Those are dangerous!" he exclaims, trying to take it away gently. Eleanor gives him a look that could only be described as scathing and hums around the pen.

"Crowley, get your little devil before she gets too cross with me," Aziraphale sighs fondly. "Oi, she's your devil too, Papa." "Much smaller version of my devil, certainly," the angel chuckles, gathering Eleanor up and kissing her red curls as she giggles.

Crowley blinks rapidly. "Ngk." he says. The implications were certainly there, weren't they now? He wasn't stupid (read: he was) and he certainly wasn't deaf (read: his hearing was quite selective). He could hear the sly undertones, the way his eyes darted to Crowley's, the slight flush. 

"Quite, dear. Now Eleanor, why don't you play for a bit while Papa makes breakfast?" Aziraphale says jovially. He puts the girl on his hip and stands up, brushing up against Crowley as he glides past. 

Crowley grows a deep red and goes off to play with Eleanor, who gifts him a plush unicorn and pats his knee sympathetically.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I could end it here lmao! I haven't written in so long but I'm consumed by these two. Lemme know if you want more!


End file.
